


Fightin’s Going Nowhere and We Stay Right Here

by allmilhouse



Category: The Racket (1928)
Genre: Dialogue Light, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-29 18:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmilhouse/pseuds/allmilhouse
Summary: On a cold street in the middle of the night, a cop bumps into a gangster.





	Fightin’s Going Nowhere and We Stay Right Here

**Author's Note:**

> title from in a world possessed by the human mind from the tragically hip

It was a cold night. The wind whipped down every street, a dry cold that cut through every layer until you could feel it, sharp and biting against your skin. With his collar turned up and his hat tucked down as far it could reach, Captain James McQuigg huddled in a doorstep, struggling to find warmth in the partial shelter. 

He liked his beat. The city could get very rough-and-tumble at times, but he liked knowing that he could make a difference. And seeing the smiles on the faces of people, of his neighbors, as they nodded to him as he passed by on the sidewalk. The druggist on the corner, or the butcher down the block- men who counted on him, and could be counted on themselves. 

“Evening, Mac.”

The voice shook him out of his reverie. Nick Scarsi, somehow the last man he’d be expecting to see, and someone he felt like he was waiting for. He was a tough, powerful bootlegger, the kind who could wriggle out of any charges McQuigg could lay on him, but not before inviting McQuigg over for another kind of lay. 

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the doorframe, all very casual. He eyes McQuigg up. “You look cold.”

“It’s a cold night,” he replied. “Too cold for a social visit.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” Scarsi agreed, nodding. He seemed to enjoy taking his time, as if there was no place he’d rather be than the freezing street. 

McQuigg was tired. He worked hard, and when Scarsi came calling he could be known to play hard. But Scarsi hadn’t been around for a while. McQuigg had an idea where though. The papers were full of stories about skirmishes and shootings on the south side, outside of his beat, down where Spike Corcoran was calling the shots, beer-wise. 

He shook his head bitterly. Scarsi was scum, probably one of the hardest guys in town. No respect for citizens, for cops, or for guys on the take. The kind of guy who made him want to be a cop, want to clean up the streets, want to take down the rackets. 

A hand brushed his arm, a spark of heat despite the thickness of his coat, and he looked up, a small smile slowly breaking out on Scarsi’s distinctive face. “My car’s gonna pull up in a minute. C’mon, let’s get you warmed up.” 

The hand lingers, holding him firm, but not so tight that McQuigg could pull away if he wanted to. Scarsi was giving him a choice, the bastard, and that was the cruelest thing he could do. Excuses rose up and died in his throat. _No thanks, I’ve got a job to do._ Or _Sorry pal, but not on my beat._

Scarsi’s still eyeing him, hungry yet patient. He’s not a man accustomed to waiting, but he can afford to here. To wait for that flicker of hesitance, the slight waiver in McQuigg’s steely eyes. The exhaustion, the cold, the plain _desire_ taking their toll and making his decision for him. 

Like clockwork the car rolls up to the curb, a fancy new model, direct from Detroit. McQuigg watches the driver step out and walk around, opening the door for them. It begins to snow then, soft white flakes that meander down, a slow but sure path to the ground, where they dissolve upon contact with the hard concrete. He follows their path with hooded eyes, a mild curiosity in their beautiful self destruction. “I’ve got a job to do,” he tries, his voice sounding soft and muffled in the night air. 

Scarsi nods. “The street’ll be quiet tonight. Trust me.” 

He doesn’t. But in the moment it’s easier to agree, to turn back and slump down slightly until his face reaches the diminutive gangster’s, their lips hardly brushing. But it’s enough. 

The grip on his arm changes, directing him now towards the waiting car. Scarsi claps him on the back as he gets in. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you back for mass in the morning. Hell, I might even join you.” 

He looks back, and Scarsi’s smiling at him again, a disarming grin that has him melting into Scarsi’s side as the car carries them down the barren street. In the morning he’ll beg and pray for forgiveness but for now he settles in to the familiar sense of peace creeping in under his frozen façade, a shallow warmth he can’t quite shut out.


End file.
